Me and Xena: A Love Story

Perhaps love is the wrong word.

I moderated the Battlestar Galactica panel at the New York Comic Con over the weekend. Before me and the cast members I was "grilling"—Tigh (Michael Hogan), Anders (Michael Trucco), and Tory (Rekha Sharma)—went on stage, they asked me if I was nervous. I told them that whatever happened, it couldn't be as uncomfortable as the last time I did this, at the 2007 San Diego Comic Con. And I told them the story I'm about to tell you:

I get into the green room (really, just an inconspicuous, cordoned-off meeting room in the convention center) about 30 minutes before the "Women of Battlestar Galactica" panel was set to start, to meet the cast and to go over the protocol of the panel: how it was supposed to flow, etc. Meeting everyone was perfectly shiny; they were all, to a person, quite nice...and I've already made my feelings for Mary McDonnell known. I sat down to go over my questions one last time (and try not to vomit on anyone), and one of the Sci Fi Channel publicists comes over and says, "Okay, our big surprise for this panel is that we're going to bring out Lucy Lawless—who's returning to the show as D'Anna—mid-way through. How do you think we should do that?"

So I said, "Why don't I ask Tricia Helfer, 'What was it like to share Baltar with another woman?' And then the Other Woman would walk out..."

"Perfect," replies the publicist, and she bounded away to deal with something else, leaving me to stew in my thoughts and try not to look at the crazy-bare-backed dress that Katee Sackhoff was wearing. And continue not vomiting on anyone.

Showtime rolls around, and we all start walking to the San Diego Convention Center's second-biggest ballroom, which holds something like 6,000 people. We're in a loading hallway, all of us like NASA astronauts heading to the Apollo capsule. (Or Spinal Tap.) Just as we get backstage, the publicist runs through the order of the panel one last time: "First, you head out. Intro the clip, then intro the panel. Couple of questions, then 'What was it like to share Baltar with another man,' Lucy comes out, more questions, toss to the crowd for fan questions, wrap it up, drink heavily."

Of course, I corrected her: "What was it like to share him with another woman." "Yeah...duh," she said.

What do you think I said, in front of the 6,000 people sitting in the crowd (and the other 300-400 standing in the aisles)?

So, Tricia, what was it like to share Baltar with another man?

Out comes Lucy, who hugs everyone else on the panel, turns to me, and flips me the middle finger. And I just took it, because there's no coming back from that. You just gotta swallow the faux pas, take your shot to the nuts like a man, and keep on moving. Which I did.

But you never forget your first time...being flipped off by a warrior princess in front of the entire geek nation. (The fact that it lives forever in online-video infamy is just icing on the cake.)

The Big Wazowski

Two years old, I know, but it still made me laugh...

Me and the New York Comic Con

Yes, I will be there, once again. Soundly smarting from The Highwaymen not getting an Eisner nomination for Best Geezer Oriented Series. (I kid.)

So, if'n you're really dead-set on tracking me down, here are a few places I'm guaranteed to be:

SATURDAY, 4/19 12:00-1:00pm: Battlestar Galactica panel. Hall 1D
I'm moderating, so I'll be the substantially less-beautiful person sitting with Grace Park and Tahmoh Penikett.

3:00-4:00pm: TopCow panel. Room 1E15.
Where I'm assuming I'll be talking a little about our Pilot Season 2008 book, Genius. And mercilessly ribbing Rob Levin. And basking in the light of Joshua Hale Fialkov, The People's Choice.

6:00-7:00pm: Signing at DC Comics booth.
Or, how I learned to stop worrying and love the fact that no one will ask me to sign a book that no one actually bought. (Again, I kid.) But I do a mean stick figure sketch.

Friday will be spent hustling my ass on "the track" and Sunday I'm doing a quick roundelay on the floor with my son. Who I may or may not be willing to trade for an ongoing series.

The Right Way to Do Drunk

I really, really miss Insomniac with Dave Attell. If you don't remember, it was the Comedy Central show in which comedian-drunk Dave Attell would drink his way through a different town each week. Drunks are funny enough, but funny drunks are like ambrosia spiked with awesome.

My Gods...Just Listen.

Never mind the photo montage, just listen to that music. It's...sustaining. Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong. The mind, it reels.

What You Talking About, Foo?

This was a while back, now...but I'm just getting around to it. And it stuck with me, so that counts for something, right?

I went to the Foo Fighters concert at Madison Square Garden back in February. I don't go to many concerts, primarily because I'm lazy/busy and, secondarily, because I'm not that big a fan of anyone enough to get off my lazy/busy ass to get the tickets. But my love for the Foos is well-documented, so I decided to see what I can do. Now, since I work where I work, trying to get into a concert doesn't involve constant calls to Ticketmaster, or angling to win a radio contest. I call in some favors. And because I never ask for this sort of thing, people are generally willing to help me out.

So I'm in a luxury box in Madison Square Garden, courtesy of the fine folks at Fuse—which I've never really watched, but, apparently, they show music videos, which is more than I can say for either of the channels that are supposed to show music videos. (The irony of me getting seats that would cost a fortune for nothing isn't lost on me at all. Neither is the distinctly un-rock-ness of attempting to rock out in a corporate suite.)

We discretely headbang our way through the show—a fine performance, to be sure—until we get to the encore. One of the Fuse publicists tells me that there's a Make-A-Wish kid who met the band during soundcheck; that he was really sweet, and that Dave Grohl took a liking to him. Just as she says this, Dave steps up to the mic and says something like, "Hey, guys. This here's my buddy Josh...he's gonna play a song with us." This teenager walks out, sits behind the drum kit, and the band launches into "Long Road to Ruin."

And this kid is phenomenal. No one spoke in the luxury suite for the whole four minutes Josh was playing. Personally, I couldn't. A smile had plastered itself on my face, goosebumps broke out everywhere, and a frog had taken up residence in my throat.

To get to meet your favorite band, to play with them at soundcheck, to be asked if you wanna get out on the stage of MADISON SQUARE FUCKING GARDEN, and then to knock it out of the goddamn park.... If that's not a wish coming true, then they flat-out never do.

And the thing of it is, if I hadn't been sitting in the Fuse box and hadn't gotten that information from the publicist, it just would've been the second song of the encore. Instead, it was heartbreakingly wonderful.

Just one of the times when I really, really love my job.

Here, so you can feel it too:




P.S. Ask my buddy Adam to tell you the story of the time he saw U2 in LA and Bono brought a bunch of teenage girls on stage to play with them.

"I'm Smaht..."

Why I Can't Stop Watching 'Terminator'

Terminator: The Sarah Chronicles is far from a perfect show. It's got a whole host of problems, not the least of which that Lena Headey isn't all that interesting as The Mother of the Future. The Inspector Javert-like FBI agent tracking her feels like either a wasted character or he's being wasted. And I still don't know what the driving impulse of the show—what each season will be building towards—aside from "Don't let them kill John."

But at least once an episode, something just jaw-droppingly stunning occurs that keeps me tuning in. And this one...man, it just fucking slams it home.

The uncle from the future introduces his nephew from the present to the father he's never met. Beautiful stuff.

EDIT: Apparently, the clip is no longer available and I am now not as in love with Hulu as I used to be.

Real 'Genius'

Since the book was officially announced at Wizard World Los Angeles over the weekend, I guess we can talk about it. The next book from Adam and I (and the wicked-talented Afua Richardson, who's drawing the shit out of it) is called Genius, and it's coming from Top Cow this June. Part of their gladiatorial Pilot Season program, where six comics compete for the hearts and minds of readers and whichever gets the most votes goes on to a miniseries. Rather ingenious, it is, in that Pilot Season allows Top Cow to take risks on books that might be too risky to commit to. How risky? Well, here's the Previews solicitation text:

Alexander, Hannibal, Napoleon, Patton. What if the greatest military mind of our generation was born in strife, surrounded by violence and combat since birth? When the gauntlet is dropped, the question isn’t “How did 17-year-old Destiny Ajaye unite the gangs of South Central into a killer army and declare war on the LAPD?” No, the question is, “Can anyone stop her?”

So, yeah, a book about a teenage gangbanger killing cops isn't a publishing no-brainer. For more on Genius, and the whole Pilot Season 2008 initiative, head over to Comic Book Resources and listen to editorial poobah Rob Levin 'splain it all.

I'm sure we'll talk more about Genius soon, but for now, it's just nice to let this particular cat out of the bag...cause I love this fuggin' book.

Invulnerable: Revise

Judging by the headache that I had for much of the early part of this week, I'm pretty sure my snowmobile fracas gave me a mild concussion.

Still, I did not go to the hospital, for I am not a puss.

Quote of the Week

From the Contentious Curmudgeon over at Comics Should Be Good:

"If Alan David Doane thinks The Highwaymen, which is just a generic action comic but is competently done and occasionally entertaining, is one of the worst comics of 2007, then he obviously doesn’t read a lot of comics."

Amen, brother.

They (Still) Like Us

A review of the trade paperback from ComicMix.com:

"There are many things the new Highwaymen comic (Wildstorm, $17.99) is not: It's not complex. It's not very serious. It doesn't have all that much character development. What it does have, though, are all the elements of a perfect action movie, simmered to near perfection.

Writers Marc Bernardin and Adam Freeman follow the action rubric to a T, installing the plot (a young woman has a weapon of mass destruction inside her and everyone's after her), the heroes (the aged Mr. McQueen and Mr. Monroe are killer and driver, respectively), and the villain (a shady leader of a U.S. government anti-terrorist organization).

I'm sure there will be those who dismiss this book as popcorn, but the thing about popcorn is, it's hella good every once in a while, especially when it's popped just right.

The Highwaymen is pretty well nonstop action along a taut storyline, executed quite well by artist Lee Garbett (his work is similar to that of John Cassaday, except Garbett actually draws backgrounds). In short, the book just tries to be a really good action story, instead of overreaching for some grand purpose. It's just violent and frivolous and fun, and there's not a darn thing wrong with that."

I Am Returned

Not dead, but not for lack of trying.

Had a most restorative break...provided you, like I, get restored by topping out at 75 mph on a snowmobile. My wife is a huge skier, has been for decades. I, personally, can't stand it. I don't like careening down a mountain with neither steering nor brakes. And I don't like the people—not the people themselves, just the amount of them. Hundreds of them, all doing the same thing at the same time. Kind of like snow lemmings. I understand why they do it; the speed, the rush. I just don't like the method or the environment.

But for most of the four days, I didn't see anyone but the nine others in my traveling party. We were alone in some of the most beautiful wilderness in the country. And that's the only reason I'll freeze my balls off: solitude.

We rode more than 350 miles in those four days. Some of the trails were tight, twisting little paths through pine forests, while others were long, flat, straightaways, like my favorite, called "Piston Alley." And considering that I hadn't been on a sled in eight years, I did rather well. Kept up with my fellow drivers and, for the most part, kept up with our ninja-savant guides...until the last day, about five miles from our final destination. I was "on the leader," carving the turns and blazing the straight-shots, until I followed him over a rise, and was surprised by a 90-degree turn. Which I didn't make.

I plowed my sled over the lip, into a ditch, and up against a tree, at about 40 mph. Through the visor of my helmet, I saw branches and then snow. I never blacked out, but I gave it a moment before I tried to move. Arms first, then legs. Nothing in pain, I rolled over and clawed my way back up onto the trail, and looked down at what could've been the site of an icy disaster. But wasn't.

So I hopped back on my still-functioning snowmobile (it just had some miraculously minor cosmetic damage) and drove it back to our base lodge, comfortable in the knowledge that after 36 years of never breaking a bone, never enduring a sprain, never spending a night in a hospital...I am still invulnerable.

Signal Silence

I'm off, boys and girls, for an arctic vacation filled with speed, snow, and—most likely—a well-calloused ass. Heading to Maine for a snowmobile vacay. If you don't hear from me in a week, I'm either dead or somewhere in the northern wilderness seeing how much nutritional content there is in a fake snowmobile seat. And fending off the rare Winter Chupacabra.

While I'm gone, though, the trade paperback of The Highwaymen will be landing on stands. On March 5, to be exact. I got my copies a couple of days ago, and there's an incredibly, satisfyingly final feeling to hold it in your hands. It is the very, very last stop for us on our journey with these characters. The trade is the terminus—holding the collection in our hands is the first, best destiny we could've hoped for. Sure, it'd have been nice if it sold through the roof, and we were busy plotting their further adventures. Alas, that was not to be. But as so many books go uncollected, hence unpreserved, this was a gratifying bookend. Literally.

An idea that began with nothing more than the words "Two men...one shoots... one drives" is now a completed book, with our names on the glorious spine.

Wherever I am on Wednesday, whatever part of the frozen tundra, I'm gonna take a moment and bellow at the Fates, thanking them for granting me that one request. And then I'm gonna gun it until I see God—or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

See y'all in seven.

Rising Stars

Adam and I have been nominated for the "Rising Star Award" by the panel of the 2008 Glyph Comics Awards—which honors the best in black comics and creators—for our work on Monster Attack Network (and, though it's not made explicit, I'd have to think The Highwaymen played a little in that). Adam must be especially pleased, as all those years working on Yo! MTV Raps and Wildin' Out have finally borne fruit.

One of the things I'm proudest of in that book is that not only did we tell a big, rollicking, monster story, but that one of the main characters, Ezekiel Holder, is a gay black man...who is no way defined by either "gay" or "black." He's just a hero...who digs furry chests and doesn't need a tan.

Oh, and that "Holder" is my grandmother's maiden name. Snuck that one right in there to please no one but me.

It Was a Good Death...

Jumper...How Did it Go So Wrong?

So I went with the missus to see Jumper over the weekend, as I was flat-out unwilling to see Fool's Gold. (And everyone she told about my unwillingness chimed in with a "It got half-a-star in the Post," even the waitress at lunch. Which irked her.) I knew that the reviews weren't great for Jumper either, but I can sit through a mediocre sci-fi movie way more easily than I can a mediocre romantic comedy.

The biggest problem with Jumper wasn't that it was bad. (Which it was. It's as if Doug Liman thought that the last 30 minutes of Mr. and Mrs. Smith—where he gives up any pretense of caring about story and proceeds to simply blow shit up—was the best part, and decided to make a whole movie like that.) No, the problem was that I could see all the pieces, all the building blocks for a good movie, just sitting there...wasted.

To break it down (and FROM HERE ON OUT, THERE BE SPOILERS): There are people who can teleport, called jumpers. There are people who, for reasons unknown, want to stop them, called Paladins. Our main character, David (Hayden Christensen), robs banks by jumping in, snatching a bunch of cash, and jumping out. No higher purpose than the amassing of money, so he can buy shit—he's the enabled slacker. He's also a bit of a douchebag. Meets girl he had a crush on in high school, but keeps his big secret. Which blows up in his face as Big Bad Paladin (Samuel L. Jackson) follows them on their trip to Rome and gets electro-sticky with it. Meets fellow jumper (Billy Elliot), who hunts Paladins for fun and profit. Big fights, lots of jumping, roll credits. Oh, and David remains a douchebag; he never pays for his crimes and gets the girl anyway. Lesson unlearned. Oh, and he finds his absentee mother, who is also a Paladin, and left the family to protect him...because she loves him.

As we're leaving the theater, I just couldn't help but think how it could all have been so much better. Here's my infinitely better Jumper (or, if not "infinitely better," has the virtue of both having an internal logic and not sucking):

The Paladins—who've been hunting jumpers for (according to the film) centuries—finally have a secret weapon: one of their own has just given birth to a jumper. Once they discover his ability, he's pulled from his suburban life, and the beginnings of a relationship with a high school girl, and they train him. He is to infiltrate the loose society of jumpers around the world and, eventually, lead the Paladins to their quarry.

So, David goes undercover. He's set up in a series of ever-more-lavish flats all over the world so that he looks the part. Jumps all over the place, leaving enough jump-scars (momentarily visible rifts in the space-time continuum) so that any fellow jumper could follow him. David believes he's bringing these people in for the greater good. He was raised to believe as much. He was also told that the captured jumpers are given a cure for their condition—an amped-up pacemaker that would disrupt their ability—and released back into the public. What he doesn't know is that the jumpers are all killed; the cure is a bullet to the head.

Confused, David returns to his childhood home to find his father, who he hasn't seen in a decade. He learns that pops was killed—in a manner that reveals Paladin involvement. He reconnects with the girl he left behind, they share a little something, and she grounds him enough to realize that the life he's led has been wrong, and he's gotta do something about it. He's the only one who can.

He assembles a small group of jumpers, reveals who he is, and convinces them to band together for an assault on the Paladin headquarters, and bring them down. Big explodo ending, the bad guys are shut down, the good guy gets his girl, and the jumpers are told to change their larcenous ways. Because, despite the destruction of the Paladin HQ, there is one Paladin left and he's the most dangerous of all: David. And, for him, anywhere is possible.

Sweet Jesus, was that so hard?

Depressing...No, Disheartening Is the Word

If you look at that little sidebar to the right, the one that lists all of the projects that I'm working on, and their various states of completion, you'll see a book there called Adora and the Distance. It's something I've been working on for a couple of years now, trying to find my way into it, stumbling my way through. Because it's unlike anything I've ever tried to write before.

It's about my daughter. It's about autism.

Well, sorta. It's about a girl who goes on a quest to save her mythical homeland from an invading force that threatens to destroy everything she holds dear. But beneath that gossamer, kid-lit fantasy disguise, it's about a girl trying to escape the imaginary-prison of her own mind and get back to the real world, and what she gains and loses in the process.

It is, needless to say, very close to my heart. It is the closest I—the dude who loves explosions and gratuitous nudity—will come to creating a story About Something. And it is, currently, falling on deaf editorial ears.

Every person I've told this story to has responded to it. Every editor I've pitched it to thought it was a really touching take on what's become a universal affliction. One of them said that it's a financial no-brainer: Sadly, this is a book with an audience, one that's getting larger every day. But when I went looking for a lit agent, not a one of the few who have any experience with graphic novels wanted anything to do with it. (One said "I'm not sure there's a readership for a book like this"; despite 1 in 150 children born today making their parents a part of that readership.) When I've been able to get the proposal to some publishers, I either got the "It's a children's book, and we don't publish those" or, "We only do children's adventures, and this doesn't quite fit" or "Intriguing...how about if we change these 58 things about it?"

I know, this is the sort of thing that confronts untold numbers of writers every day of their lives ("I've got this awesome idea and they...just...don't...understand!"). And, yes, there are publishers I haven't approached yet. I'm sure that if the book I was writing was "One father's autobiographical experience raising an autistic child" and it was black-and-white and maybe I also happened to discover I was gay in the process — then, I'd lock up a deal toot sweet. But I don't want to write that book. I don't want to read that book. I'm not that guy. I want pirates and swordfights and oracles and children realizing that the world isn't too big for them to handle. I want high adventure.

What I can't figure out is why no one else seems to.

Sorry...

I've been a horrible landlord, I know. The internet is an insatiable beast. Honestly, it's like I'm on a locomotive going balls out, and I'm in charge of laying the tracks just before we run over them.

But I'll be back soon. Promise.

Five Places I Wish I Could Work

This should, in no way, lead anyone to believe that I don't love where I work now. You'll notice that none of the places I list here are other magazines; that's because I'm exactly where I want to be, as a journalist. It's just that these other places are/will be doing very special things, and I'd love to better myself for being part of their process.

1. Pixar
As close to a perfect brand as there is. Think about it: They've never made a bad movie. Never. They're batting 1.000. No one does animation with the same attention to storytelling detail and craft like Pixar. They follow where the story leads, and they're not afraid to fix it when it's broken. Egads, what a fella could learn from them.

2. Rockstar Games
I'm a gamer and these guys have pumped out more groundbreaking videogames than anyone. While Bungie created the defining shooter in Halo, Rockstar has done more—the Grand Theft Auto series, Table Tennis, Bully, Manhunt—and done more right.

3. Bad Robot
J.J. Abrams seems to have taken the baton from Joss Whedon and become the geek factory. He knows what people want to see before they do and, maybe more importantly, he knows how to tease them into wanting it even more. As a company, flush with Cloverfield success, they can do whatever they want to.

4. Production I.G.
I almost put down Hayao Miyazaki's Ghibli anime studio but, while all accounts point to that being a terrific place to work, it seems like Ghibli is in the Miyazaki business. Which is great but feels a little like Lucasfilm in that regard: a company set up to execute the vision of one man. Production I.G. has been churning out terrific anime for years now—it'd be great to learn to learn to tell stories in that format from the folks who did the Ghost in the Shell cycle, the toon segment in Kill Bill: Vol. 1, and Blood: The Last Vampire.

5. Cartoon Network
Why? Because they gave The Venture Brothers a third season. Obviously, they know what time it is. And it's the last place on TV for original animation for grown-ups.